Tolerable (Modern Jane #2)

1

Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien and the report... of his having ten thousand a year. —Pride I threw one last weekend. And I’m still floating on the high of the event. Both because it was truly so much fun and also because I’m relishing all the praise I’m getting for the successful Pemberley Pumpkin Hunt. Even though I’m a relative newbie here at Bennet Parties, my boss chose me to be the team leader for our wealthiest client, the Darcy family of Pemberley Almonds, because in Priscilla’s words, “After all, you grew up on a farm.”

It doesn’t matter how many times I tell my boss that my dad was not a farmer. The fact that I’m from Iowa and occasionally wear overalls has her convinced otherwise. I’ve told Priscilla repeatedly that not everyone in the state lives on a farm. My dad happens to be a professor, and I grew up in a modest split level in a cul-de-sac.

“But you must know all about farms and pumpkin parties,” she insisted. Um, no, I didn’t. Frankly, I’d never heard of a Pumpkin Hunt until I was assigned to plan one. But I have an excellent imagination and can do a mean Google search. I jumped at the chance to plan a party on a gorgeous estate with nearly an unlimited budget. A pretty painted pumpkin from the event rests on my desk, a reminder of my success.

“Lettie!” coos Priscilla, standing in the doorway. “This just arrived for you.” She hands me a box of very bougie, locally crafted chocolates.

“Wow! Who sent these?” I greedily remove the lid. An irresistible scent of chocolate wafts up. Each perfectly sculpted piece gleams like a gem in the afternoon light. I select one garnished with salt, hoping it’s salted caramel. I take a bite. “Mmmm... ” Yes, salted caramel coats my tongue. And ooh, is that a hint of passionfruit? So delicious! I offer the box to Priscilla and Lydia, Priscilla’s daughter, who follows her mom into my turret office. Bennet Parties is housed in a refurbished Victorian. I offer one to Jane, who shares my office; she takes one but immediately lowers her curly dark locks to whatever she’s working on.

“They were sent by Liam Darcy himself,” Priscilla says in an awed tone. One might think my boss, wearing a kilt and a leather jacket, is dressing up early for Halloween. But no, this is an everyday outfit for Priscilla, whose personal style is best described as Janis Joplin meets Cyndi Lauper (this fall, she’s going with teal hair). “And he also sent this.” She waves a creamy envelope like it’s a golden ticket. “A hand-written note.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “For you.”

I take it from her and examine my name written in a flowing script across the envelope: Ms. Lettie Benson

“Open it already!” hisses Lydia. “The suspense is killing me.”

Even Jane pauses her work. I don’t get why everyone is being so weird about this. I read the note to myself. It’s just a thank you note from a client for a job well done.

“So . . . ?” asks Lydia.

“He said he appreciated my work on the party and was sorry he couldn’t be there.”

“Mr. Darcy himself requested you help plan the Pemberley Holiday Party,” says Priscilla with a significant look.

Now this, I understand. “What an honor. Are you okay with that?” I ask. In general, Priscilla handles the Pemberley company parties herself. She only passed the Pumpkin Hunt to me this year due to a family wedding.

“Of course, dear. You’ve definitely proven yourself.”

“I cannot believe your luck!” Lydia takes another chocolate. “Liam Darcy sent you chocolates!” She starts fanning herself. “He’s soooo HAWT!” Observing my bewilderment, Lydia asks, “Haven’t you seen him?”

“No, he couldn’t make the party, and I did all of the planning with his assistant, Ms. Reynolds.”

“Such a shame.” Lydia shakes her ombre pink hair. She graduated from high school four months ago but is already so much more sophisticated than I’ll ever be. “And you didn’t Google him?”

I’m not sure what the fuss is about. I had seen a photo of the CEO on Pemberley’s website, William Darcy Jr., a pleasant-looking man in his 60s. Priscilla points to my computer. “Google Liam Darcy.”

“You mean more like ogle him,” Jane says as she rolls her chair across the worn wooden floor to my side of the desk. The others huddle behind me. The screen fills with images of Liam Darcy of Pemberley Almonds. I clear my throat. Apparently, Mr. Darcy is not the kind, portly white-haired gentleman I pictured while reading his thoughtful note. I click on the first photo, a head pic of Liam Darcy in a suit. I immediately feel an uncomfortable pull of attraction. Liam Darcy is much younger than I expected. I’d guess late twenties or early thirties. He is not the man I saw before on the website. The Mr. Darcy who wrote me must be the son: William Darcy III.

He has a strong jawline, storm cloud eyes, and tousled brown hair. Also, his mouth is quite pleasant, almost pretty. Realizing that Liam Darcy is exactly my type of handsome is distressing. Sort of like seeing the perfect pair of shoes in a shop window and then noting the price. I prefer to keep my wants within reason. And this guy is the opposite of reasonable. His good looks are downright ludicrous.

He has the rugged build of an outdoorsman—a lumberjack, a mountain guide, or a Viking. Which I suppose makes sense because, even though he’s the CEO of a successful almond distribution company, he is first and foremost a farmer. I scroll down to a photo of him rowing in college at UCLA, which explains the impressive shoulders filling out his suit coat in the next image. It’s not fair that some people are not only born rich but beautiful, too.

So, this is Mr. Darcy... I take another bite of my chocolate.

***

Next time I go to the Pemberley offices, I put in some effort with my makeup and wear something other than overalls. In fact, I wear my cutest dress as I stroll through the light-filled lobby, keeping an eye out for tall men in expensive suits. No luck; I meet with Ms. Reynolds, the no-nonsense executive assistant dressed in a gray sweater and a matching wool skirt. As I enter her office, she views me in one severe assessing gaze, noting the extra care I’ve taken with my appearance. Ms. Reynolds doesn’t smile with her mouth, but I swear humor lights in her clear blue eyes. I’m pretty sure she knows I dressed up hoping to see her boss. I’m certain of this suspicion when she briskly mentions that Mr. Darcy will not be involved in any party planning this year. The next time I come, I don’t fuss over my outfit. Still, I keep an eye out for tall men in dark suits.

Whenever I return from a meeting at Pemberley to the shabby purple Victorian of Bennet Parties, Lydia sits on the porch steps, waiting for me. “Did you meet Mr. Hottie?” she asks.

“Nope. No sign of him.”

“Maybe next time.”

But I don’t see him the next time or the next. Which makes sense; the man has a multi-million dollar business to run. Still, all the questions about the oh-so-hot Mr. Darcy have left me mildly annoyed with his existence. Plus, my midwestern frugality cannot comprehend the staggering amount of money his family spends on this event. Every time I pay a vendor, I wince a little, mentally compiling a list of better uses for the money spent on the ice sculptures, light crews, and caterers. However, by the day of the party, I must admit all this money has created something magical.

When the guests arrive, they look up in wonder as they take in the glory of the towering trees twinkling with millions of fairy lights. In the center of the circular driveway glitters an enormous Christmas tree, two-stories tall. Fluffy flakes of snow pirouette down from a cloudless night sky. That’s right, the Darcy family brought in snow machines so their guests can experience a white Christmas the first week of December in Sacramento.

Happy cheers and laughter float through the air as families build snowmen, children sled down white hills, and couples glide across the ice rink set up in the pasture. I survey it all with a mix of pride and anxiety. Walking the grounds as the party begins, I make sure everything runs according to plan. A layer of fresh snow covers the ground, reflecting many sparkling lights. All the vendors wait at their stations with food ready to serve. The air smells of roasted almonds.

The parking shuttles drop off guests like clockwork, and the machine-made snow isn’t melting. It’s a cool 38 degrees, making me grateful for my puffy jacket and red beanie. I cross the grounds, returning to the front entrance to wait for the next group of guests. A tall man in a long black overcoat stands on the front steps. I shudder with recognition.

His feet are shoulder-width apart, and his hands clasped behind his back. I’m certain it’s Mr. Darcy, even though all I can see is his back and some of his profile. Perhaps it’s his height or his broad shoulders or the way he surveys the party as if he owns the world. I feel some trepidation approaching him, which irks me. I give myself an internal shake and a pep talk. He might be absurdly rich and excessively handsome, but those things don’t make Liam Darcy a superior human. He turns and fixes his eyes on me, and his face changes with something like recognition. With deliberate strides, he descends the front steps to meet me.

“Mr. Darcy, I assume.” I hold out my mittened hand to shake. He engulfs mine with his ungloved hand. The heat of his body radiates through my red mitten. He must run hot. Perhaps it’s all the layers. He wears his long black trench coat unbuttoned over a three-piece suit. The way his coat swells in the wind and flaps about his ankles makes me think of a superhero’s cape. It’s not a bad look. Though it is a bit much for a party with sledding and cookie decorating.

“Hi! I am Lettie, with Bennet’s Parties,” I say. Snowflakes catch in his brown hair. I have the oddest urge to reach up and brush them out.

“Ah! the famous Lettie.” His slate eyes rove my face. “Have we met?” His words are more demanding than friendly.

“No, definitely not. I just have one of those faces,” I say with a nervous laugh.

He nods but appears unconvinced.

“The party looks great.” He speaks stiffly. I can’t decide if he’s uncomfortable with the party or me.

“It turned out alright,” I say modestly.

“Yes, Reynolds has praised you up and down.” His words are kind, but his tone distant. “I meant what I said in my note about the Pumpkin Hunt. Well done.” I get the feeling he’s speaking from a script while his mind is off somewhere else entirely. The lights on the archway bathe his chiseled, solemn face.

Oh, so he did write that note; I was beginning to wonder if maybe Reynolds wrote it for him. But I’m still confused. “Forgive me, Mr. Darcy, but you didn’t go to that party?”

“Please, call me Liam.” He attempts a smile. “I couldn’t make it. All the more reason to thank you. According to all reports, it was a big success.” I mean, he’s not wrong. I’ve never been to a Pumpkin Hunt before, but in my humble opinion, it was an exceptional party.

Pemberley Parties are events for the company as well as the community. There are three parties a year: Blossom Days, the Pumpkin Hunt, and the Pemberley Holiday Party. In the past, Liam’s mother, Anne Darcy, organized these events with Bennet Parties, assisting the week of the party. But, after her husband’s sudden death this year, the family canceled Blossom Days and handed over all the party planning to our company. As mentioned, I was assigned the Pumpkin Hunt, which is sort of like an Easter Egg hunt where guests look for pumpkins instead of eggs. Each guest can take home up to three pumpkins. There’s also a huge bonfire where revelers can roast hot dogs and s’mores. Chili, cornbread, beer, and cider round out the festivities.

“My mom appreciated that you made sure that there was vegan chili and gluten-free cornbread.” I stand a little taller. I gave the caterer my own vegan chili recipe even after Priscilla balked at my insistence that some guests would be vegan.

“No one’s really vegan,” she quipped. “They just tell people that to feel superior.” It’s a daily challenge not to talk back to my boss. I don’t even bother to suppress my eye rolls.

“And this.” He points to the slope behind us, where people are sledding on inner tubes and wooden toboggans. It looks like something out of a Christmas card. “It is... ” He begins then trails off lost in thought. He clears his throat. “My father would approve.”

“Darcy!” hollers a cheerful male voice. It’s Charlie Bingham (I happen to recognize him from the extensive Google search of Darcy). The two rowed together at UCLA. Charlie is tall, muscular, and beyond blond. He looks very Nordic, standing by the front door of the Darcy family’s gorgeous gray stone house. Charlie skips down the steps. He’s not even bothering with a coat. He sports jeans, a creamy cable knit sweater, and a green plaid scarf artfully draped around his neck. He jogs over to the two of us. “What luck! You’re both standing under the mistletoe.”

We both look up at the kissing ball with horror. How could I make such a dreadful mistake? I helped the florist hang the abominable thing this morning. Not that the kissing ball is abominable; it’s quite lovely—a sphere of holly and ivy with red berries, white spray roses, and sprigs of mistletoe. My eyes catch Darcy’s gray ones. A strong emotion flickers across his face; if I had to name it, I’d say panic. He jumps away from me.

Charlie laughs. “Don’t be such a drama queen, Darcy. It would be no trial to kiss... umm... ” he flails for my name.

I put my hand out, striving to be professional despite my riotous heart. “I’m Lettie Benson with the event planner.”

Charlie takes my red mitten, then clasps it with both his hands. He shakes it in a friendly manner. “Charlie Bingham, pleasure to meet you, Lettie. Don’t give old Darcy another thought. Spontaneity and fun are not his strong suits. He’s a grump but has a heart of gold, or at least a bank full of the stuff.” He laughs at his own joke.

“You’ve said enough, Bingham,” Liam says through tight lips.

“Nice to meet both of you,” I squeak. “I’ll just get going.”

I scurry into the house, and I swear, I feel Darcy’s disapproving glare heavy on my back until I shut the door behind me.